


Death is No Lover

by Derek_needs_a_hug



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Angry Derek Hale, Angst, BDSM, Bottom Derek Hale, Creature Stiles, Crying, Derek Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Stiles Stilinski, Grumpy Derek, Hurt Derek Hale, Incubus Stiles Stilinski, Jealous Derek, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Oblivious Derek, Oblivious Stiles, Panic Attacks, Pining Derek, Prostitute Derek Hale, Prostitution, Protective Derek, Top Derek
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-01 10:25:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11484435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Derek_needs_a_hug/pseuds/Derek_needs_a_hug
Summary: Stiles' world is turned upside-down when he's turned into an incubus. He doesn't think life could get any worse, until he meets his new neighbour, Derek. Derek is a prostitute. When the two worlds collide, things have to get a little worse before they start to get better.





	1. Meeting

The rent for Stiles’ new apartment in San Francisco was disturbingly low. There were fifteen in the apartment-block in total, and Stiles' was the second from the top floor. If anything, it ought to have been more expensive than the ones below it. But it wasn’t. It was the cheapest by a considerable amount. Stiles should have been glad, but he wasn’t going to count his blessings just yet—it was, quite frankly, far too good to be true.

For an apartment at such a low price that even he—a barely-eighteen, unemployed runaway living on his college savings—could afford it, there was very little wrong with it under first inspection. Sure, the furniture and appliances were second-hand and there was no TV, but at least it actually had furniture and storage space. Stiles had been expecting to sleep on the floor in a bare apartment until he at least found a new job.

The fact that he wouldn’t have to spend money on furnishings only confused him further. There had to be something wrong with the apartment. Something really wrong. Or perhaps he was overthinking it. Was it a blessing? Or a blessing in disguise? Or a curse disguised as a blessing in disguise? He didn’t care, really. It certainly outdid living in his Jeep 24/7.

He moved into the apartment almost immediately, along with all his belongings—a couple of pairs of jeans, some graphic tees, some plaid shirts, underwear, his phone, his laptop, his wallet, a picture of him and Scott, and picture of his mom and his dad, and several rolls of bank notes he kept for emergencies—and mustered the courage to ask the landlady what made the apartment so cheap.

The middle-aged woman looked hesitant to say anything at first. “No, there is absolutely nothing wrong with the apartment,” she then snapped, Stiles having touched on what was obviously a sore topic. “Just don’t go complaining about the man living upstairs, you hear me? He’s a very nice young man, I’ll have you know. And he pays twice the amount of rent that you do.”

Before he could reply, his own door was slammed in his face and he was alone with his suitcase and rucksack, wondering what exactly his new upstairs neighbour would do to warrant a complaint.

Stiles considered venturing upstairs to perhaps say “hi”, and introduce himself to this very nice young man. In the end, he decided not to. Maybe tomorrow, he told himself, his exhaustion overcoming his curiosity.

It was later that night when he got his first clue as to what was wrong with the man living above him.

He had crawled beneath the bedsheets, still wearing jeans and a shirt, that familiar ache clawing at his insides, a sickening pang of hunger deep in his gut. His skin crawled with a prickling heat, that same insatiable need for something, anything that always dwelled in the darkness of his mind—something which had grown to become the norm for Stiles over the past couple of weeks, steadily growing worse and worse with each passing day.

He had read the books, the bestiaries. He knew what would happen if he didn’t feed often enough. He’d probably go mad, or kill someone. Most likely both.

With a hand trembling slightly, he tentatively touched the bite mark just above his collar-bone, the teeth marks deep and raw and tender to the touch although it had long healed over. Tears prickled behind his eyes; whether because of the sensitivity of the bite, or the dull pain in his lower abdomen, or his longing for Beacon Hills, for home, or for his dad and Scott, or his mom—he wasn’t sure. He didn’t particularly care why, though, instead just letting the loneliness wash over him as he lay on his back in the darkness of his new bedroom.

He knew he would need to find someone eventually. He had to feed, but not just yet. He didn’t want to know whether his self-control was enough or not. He didn’t want to become a murderer just yet either. He wanted to hang onto whatever humanity remained in him for as long as he possibly could, even if it killed him. If he were lucky, perhaps it would.

Being too deep in thought as he pondered what lengths he would go to in order to survive, Stiles didn’t notice the noise at first. In fact, he hadn’t realised what exactly was happening until after the most bizarre feeling washed over him:

He felt like he was floating. The ache inside him ceased a little, being replaced by something else, something almost pleasurable. He let out a sigh, revelling in the momentary lack of pain, the pure note of satisfaction, however faint, that quelled the ever-growing emptiness that had threatened to consume him.

He closed his eyes, and wondered just for a second whether he’d been able to overcome the monster that he was doomed to become, whether his body had been able to reject the bite that had stolen his future, his life, his friends and family.

And then he heard it. Directly above him, muffled by the ceiling between him and the apartment above, was the distant sound of voices. Two male voices, both too muted for any exact words to be audible.

Stiles strained to listen until he realised that they weren’t talking at all. The voices were then accompanied by the sound of some sort of repetitive creaking, which increased in volume eventually until Stiles could hear the incessant banging of what he assumed was a bed hitting the wall.

Stiles blushed as the voices—the moaning and grunting, accompanied by random shouts of “oh god" and “fuck"—grew louder and louder, the shouts increasing in frequency as they chorused in tandem, building up to what sounded like (as far as Stiles could tell) a momentous climax—

Then the voices and banging suddenly ceased, along with Stiles' temporary relief. Over the following few minutes, during which Stiles stared, dumbfounded and slightly confused, at the ceiling, the ache returned in increments.

He lay motionless on his back, listening to heavy footsteps above him and doors clicking open and shut. But the ache was nowhere near as uncomfortable as before, he realised. His torturous thirst had been quenched, for the time being at least.

Distantly, Stiles remembered reading somewhere that an incubus could also feed on second-hand energy, as opposed to feeding directly from the source which always ran the risk of completely draining (and killing) the victim. The energy wasn’t nearly as potent, but at least it would keep him from starving.

And that was Stiles’ last thought before he lost consciousness, his hunger subdued enough to allow himself a dreamless sleep.

* * *

 

The next morning, feeling more revitalised than he had in a long time, Stiles plucked up the courage to introduce himself to his neighbours (well, just one neighbour in particular, if he were being honest with himself).

He showered first thing and changed into a fresh pair of clothes. He had no food as of yet, and planned to change that later on in the day, so he sat on one of the couches and browsed local jobs on the internet for a few minutes before he heard footsteps wandering around above him.

He gave it another fifteen minutes—he didn’t want to irritate his new neighbour by annoying him first thing in the morning with his tiresome personality—before finally venturing up the last flight of stairs and arriving at the apartment on the top floor.

Stiles gave the door a few tentative knocks and almost immediately it swung open, revealing what was perhaps the most devastatingly attractive person he’d ever had the misfortune of laying eyes upon.

It certainly didn’t help that Stiles had been listening in to the man’s very, extremely personal life just a few hours ago. Although it was difficult not to. They had been very loud. Stiles couldn’t help but blush at the thought.

He was around Stiles’ height, possibly an inch or two taller, but probably had ten or more pounds on Stiles’ scrawny build—because this guy was built. Like, he probably worked-out three times daily. Or did manual work for a living. Not only that, but from the sheen on sweat coating his skin, highlighting the pronounced muscles that wound around his forearms, and from the thin tank-top and shorts that barely covered his niceties, Stiles assumed that he was interrupting the man’s morning work-out.

And the guy didn’t seem pleased in the slightest. Plastered on his admittedly handsome, bearded face was one of the most terrifying glares Stiles had ever seen.

“Um,” Stiles began intelligently, resisting the urge to run away from the quite frankly impressive scowl that his neighbour was sending his way. “Hi, I’m Stiles. I’m your, uh, new neighbour. I just moved in. Below you. Yeah.”

Before he could make himself seem even more incompetent, he jerkily stuck out his hand for the man to shake, and mentally cursed himself for not wiping his palms on his jeans before-hand.

Not without caution, the man took his hand and gave it a small but firm shake. “Derek,” he said, his voice higher in pitch than Stiles was expecting, but his pale eyes and piercing gaze made up for any menace that may have been compromised.

Hands having dropped to their sides, they both stood there looking at each other. Stiles shifted nervously under Derek’s scrutiny as he looked Stiles up and down, and Stiles could have sworn that he saw Derek’s nostrils flare slightly, as if he were scenting the air. It was an odd thing, something that Stiles had only ever seen Scott and other werewolves do. He mentally filed away that piece of information.

“Good to meet you Derek,” Stiles forced himself to say, with a smile that he hoped Derek couldn’t tell was strained. “Just wanted to introduce myself to my new neighbours. I, uh, moved in last night, and the landlady told me you were a very nice guy—”

“Last night?” Derek suddenly interjected, now sounding worried rather than grumpy, his stony expression souring further.

“Uh, yeah?” Stiles squeaked.

“Look. _Stiles_ ,” Derek suddenly spat, pointing a finger rather threateningly in Stiles’ direction. “If you’re here to complain about—about last night, you and your fucking righteous indignation can shove-off and you can take it up with the landlady, ‘cause I’m not—”

“Whoa, dude, dude—what? No. No. I’m not—I’m not here about that,” Stiles said, taken aback by Derek’s sudden verbal attack, hands held up in defence. “I-I’m just here to say hi, y’know? Dude, I’m not—”

Derek folded his arms over his ridiculously toned chest, looking severely unimpressed. “Don’t call me dude.”

“—a complete asshole. It’s not your fault that our bedrooms are, uh, in an unfortunate position. I just ignored it. It’s fine,” he said, voice softer and lower as if he were calming an animal.

For a second, it seemed to work, Derek’s expression softening a little. “Besides,” Stiles continued, “I don’t expect you to be a monk for my sake. Everyone’s allowed to have a bit of, err, rowdy sex on occasion…”

And… then the scowl was back. Stiles sighed. _Well done, Stilinski. Pissing off your insanely hot neighbour within thirty seconds of meeting him. Only you._

“Look, man,” he tried to say as sincerely as he could. “I don’t know what I said to upset you, but I honestly just wanted to introduce myself.”

No response. Stiles felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Okay, well…I-I’ve got to unpack ‘n’stuff.” He stumbled backwards. “See you ‘round, Derek.”

As quickly as he could, he scampered off down the stairs and back to the safety of his apartment. He slammed the door and let out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in.

“Well that went great,” he muttered to himself. “Congratulations. You have no friends, no family, no job, and now your hot neighbour hates you. Perfect.”

And with what felt like a continuously sinking feeling in his stomach, he went about trying to set up his new life. He searched for jobs on the internet—found a couple that thankfully didn’t seem like they’d give him an inclination towards suicide—and set up online classes for college that would start in a couple of months, all the while never getting up from his couch.

He thought about going out to scour the neighbourhood, perhaps visiting the local stores, stocking up his wardrobe. The only handy thing—or really, really depressing, depending on which way he looked at it—about being an incubus was that he didn’t need to eat actual food to sustain himself. In fact, most food was practically impossible to stomach. Most beverages he could just about handle, but there were very few solid foods that he could eat without bringing it back up again.

So at least he wouldn’t have to spend money on food. Which was a plus, he supposed, despite the pang of melancholy he got when he remembered being human; when he remembered his old life, something which he had in his possession only weeks prior, but still seemed long gone.

The only thing he had now was the monster in his stomach, the lust and the hunger that clawed incessantly at his insides, begging to be let out. _It was only a matter of time_ , he knew, before he’d have to let the monster out. Either he would allow it to feed, or he would let it consume him. No matter which way, the chances of someone dying for his sake were dangerously high and what he would do for survival would only remain a mystery for so long.

* * *

 

It was late afternoon that very same day that a loud knock on his door jerked him out of his stupor. He tried getting up to answer the door, but after a few seconds of flailing and struggling to separate himself from the couch, he gave up and shouted, “Come in the door’s unlocked.”

The door opened and Stiles looked up.

“Derek?!” he squeaked.

Rather than being surly and frowny as Stiles expected following the morning’s encounter, Derek looked sheepish and, to Stiles’ surprise, apologetic. He didn’t meet Stiles’ gaze as he said, “Sorry I…I wanted to apologise for this morning.”

Stiles couldn’t bring himself to respond, mind occupied by the notion of Derek, his grumpy neighbour, wearing a dressing gown. A silk dressing gown. A blue-grey, shiny material embroidered with various differently-coloured threads. Which he was wearing. In the middle of the afternoon. _What_ the hell.

“Um, can I come in?” Derek asked hesitantly after a few moments, apparently unaware of Stiles’ struggle.

“Yes. Yeah, sure, come in,” Stiles quickly responded, gesturing to the space beside him.

He was finally able to get off the couch by the time Derek had sat down. He made his way across the room to the fridge, saying, “You want anything to drink?”

“Sure,” came the reply.

“I’ve got diet coke,” Stiles began. “And coffee. And tap water. And beer.”

“Coke’s fine.”

Stiles returned to the living-area, two cans in hand, and tossed one to Derek, who elegantly caught it and then cleared his throat. “So as I was saying, I wanted to apologise for my behaviour.”

Stiles gave a dismissive wave of his hand and said, “It’s fine. Apology accepted. I’ve already moved on.”

Derek pursed his lips, looking a little frustrated but not at all angry, to Stiles’ relief. “You may not want to say that just yet.” _Oh dear._ “I have my reasons for this morning. And this has happened before. Many times.”

The encounter was confusing Stiles more and more by the second. “It has?” 

The man took a deep breath, as if mentally preparing himself. “Yes. And I don’t want to be of any trouble. Similarly, I would appreciate it if you didn’t bother me either.”

 _Here we go again._ “Look, dude—”

“Don’t call me dude,” Derek snapped. “And let me finish: I work from home—from my apartment upstairs.”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles said.

Derek watched Stiles carefully as he spoke. “And my particular line of business, some people find it…disruptive.”

“Right,” Stiles said, nodding but still not understanding what Derek was getting at.

“And because of the way that this particular apartment is set out, you may be able to hear certain things.”

“Mm hmm.”

The irritation was apparent in Derek’s expression as he said, “Like last night.”

Stiles frowned. “What has last night got to do with—”

Derek looked up to the ceiling indignantly and huffed, as if Stiles was the biggest, most insufferable moron he’d ever met. It was better than him being angry, Stiles supposed. “I’m a male escort.”

Stiles almost spat out the coke he’d been idly sipping. Having carefully swallowed it, he carefully said, “Oh. Okay then.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “ _That’s_ your response?” he said, incredulous, voice a mixture of disbelief and irritation.

Shrugging, Stiles replied with, “Well, what else am I supposed to say?”

Derek spluttered. “That—that I should get a real job, that I should get help, that I should work harder to be a productive member of society, that _Jesus_ forgives me—”

“Jesus hung out with prostitutes too,” Stiles couldn’t help but point out. “A cool dude was Jesus.”

“Well good for him,” Derek sneered.

“Besides,” Stiles butted in. “Saying all those things—would be a little hypocritical, don’t you think? You know, seeing as I myself am unemployed. You at least earn money. Also,” he said loudly, trying to be heard before Derek interrupted. “Who do you think I am? I appreciate that some pretty awful people must’ve stayed in this apartment before me, but, just…don’t jump to conclusions, yeah?”

Satisfied with Derek’s slightly dumbstruck expression, he continued. “And as for the noise problem, I’m sure I can live with it. Last night wasn’t too bad. I can listen to music or something. With headphones.”

Derek still seemed unconvinced. “Clients usually stay later than he did last night,” he stated grumpily.

It was Stiles’ turn to sigh. How was he supposed to convince his new neighbour that he didn’t mind that he was a hooker, when the reason being was that he was an incubus that fed on sexual energy and so was actually pretty ecstatic with this turn of events?

Because he truly was ecstatic, if not wearily relieved. Sure, feeding on energy second hand would never be as potent as if Stiles himself was involved, but this way he wouldn’t starve, and neither he nor some other unsuspecting victim would have to die. He barely refrained from grabbing Derek by the lapels of his stupid silk gown and kissing him on the lips. Which would also kind of defeat the purpose.

Instead, he found himself saying, “Look. I really don’t care. If I were staying in a college dorm, I’d probably have to deal with the exact same thing or worse. So just…chill, yeah?”

Looking pissed-off, sceptical, and oh so attractive in his grumpiness, Derek eventually conceded. “Fine. Good. If you do have any problems though, take it up with the landlady. I’m—”

Derek abruptly stopped short. He narrowed his eyes, cast upwards at the ceiling, the floor to his own apartment, frowning, his nostrils flaring slightly (just as Stiles had noticed earlier). It was as if he was straining to listen to something, although Stiles couldn’t hear a thing as he waited for Derek to break the silence.

“Derek, what—”

“Shh!” Derek hissed, before his frown smoothed out and a look of realisation came over his features. “I-I’ve got to go,” he stammered as he leapt up from the couch, leaving the unopened can of coke on the coffee table, and bolted out of Stiles apartment.

It wasn’t until about five minutes later—during which Stiles tentatively continued job-searching whilst wondering whether Derek would be coming back—that Stiles realised what had happened. Or was happening.

This time, it was the sensation of bliss that he felt first, not the sounds that he heard (those came a few minutes later). All the while, he continued browsing, trying to concentrate on something other than what he was feeling just then.

It seemed a little odd to revel in something that violated the privacy of someone that he now knew. He tried to put it out of his mind, but in the end, he slunk back into his room and flopped down on the bed and listened to the litany of moans and groans and curses from above him, one voice entirely unfamiliar, and one so familiar that Stiles blushed as he couldn’t help but listen in, feeling like the worst kind of eavesdropper, taking pleasure in someone else’s bodily reactions without their consent (although on some level Stiles could tell the noises Derek made were strained at best, if not entirely faked.

Furthermore, the incubus couldn’t tell whether the sexual energy was coming from Derek, or the stranger, or from the both of them).

By the time his own cock was hard and straining against his pants, he was picturing his hot, grumpy neighbour in his mind and the point-of-no-return had long since passed.

He palmed himself through his jeans, allowing himself to give out a low groan, knowing full well the shame would kick in eventually.

And it did, but not before Stiles had come in his pants like a teenager. Which he felt was justified, because he actually was a teenager—not only that but a virgin too. An eighteen year-old, virgin incubus with a hooker neighbour on whom he was steadily but surely growing fixated, if not because he was attracted to him but because Derek was literally his lifeline if he wasn’t going to harm anyone else.

Stiles grimaced at the feeling of cum soaking into the front of his boxers and allowed his guilt to push out any lingering feelings of pleasure, letting his mood turn sour.

“Fuck.”

* * *

 

Much to Stiles’ delight, mortification, and, dare he say it, pleasure, Derek had a lot of sex. The incubus could see why he had been so sceptical about Stiles’ easy acceptance of the situation: that guy had clients practically every single day, weekdays and weekends included. Sometimes he’d even have more than one client a day, in which case Stiles couldn’t help but mentally praise his stamina, as even he, a virginal teenage boy-turned sex demon, could only just keep up with the stimulus.

After a couple of days, Stiles fell into a rhythm of ‘feeding’ every time Derek had a client. He became accustomed to Derek’s usual timings, often anticipating his clients before they arrived. It wasn’t necessarily a pleasant method, what with the guilt and crushing loneliness diminishing any illusion of closeness with Derek, the only other human being in the city who knew his name (apart from the landlady of course).

Derek didn’t come back to visit him for a few days though. Not that Stiles was surprised—although their second meeting had marginally improved upon their first. Either way, it didn’t seem to matter. The incubus was too sheepish to visit Derek himself anyway. On top of which, rarely leaving his apartment, he ventured out only to buy clothes or apartment furnishings. Even then, he did his best to refrain spending his painfully limited pot of money, hesitant to spend his finite savings until he got a job, which could take weeks if not months.

And so for the next week or so, Stiles’ range of human contact was limited only to cashiers who’d rather not be there. (He would often think about his father and Scott back home, whether they were searching for him, or whether they’d adhere to the letter addressed to them both. Sometimes he’d wonder if he could ever bring himself to see them again. It was bad enough that he was now literally a demon, but to also have run away, abandoning his father entirely, was something he’d never forgive himself for, let alone accept forgiveness regarding. Maybe though. Perhaps. If he ever gets this whole incubus thing under control.)

Just as he was beginning to accept this newfound seclusion, however, it was abruptly brought to a halt by—surprise, surprise—Grumpy McGrump-Face, Scowler Extraordinaire, Hottie Hooker Neighbour Derek, looking especially grumpy first thing in the morning, although Stiles doubted that the time of day was the cause of Derek's anger.

Stiles opened his front door. “Oh, hi Der—”

Suddenly, before he could work out what was happening, he found himself slammed into the wall adjacent to the threshold, pinned there with Derek’s— _claws!_ —hand around his neck— _hang on, those are actual fucking claws what in holy he_ —

Derek's face was inches from his as he seethed, “What are you and what the fuck are you doing here?”

Stiles couldn’t answer. The pressure on his throat wasn’t enough to close off his airway entirely, but his voice was somehow stuck. Perhaps he was petrified by Derek's proximity. Or perhaps by the sheer rage and hatred the radiated from him like the scolding heat of a blast furnace. Or perhaps it was the way that, in his fury, Derek's eyes bled steel blue, the colour enveloping his once hazel irises. In that moment, all Stiles could think was _werewolf_ and _blue eyes_ and _killer_ and—

“Answer me!” the werewolf roared in his face, slamming his head back into the wall for emphasis.

Vision blurry and beginning to sway, Stiles, aided by his fight instincts, managed to gasp, “l-I'm not anything! I w-wouldn’t ever hurt a-anyone, I swear to god I—”

“ _Shut up_ ,” the werewolf hissed.

Stiles flinched, trying to recoil as much as was possible while he was still pinned against the wall.

Derek continued, declaring, “I know you’re not human. You never eat. You rarely go out. You’re always doing something in your goddamn apartment that makes the whole fucking floor reek of—" sulphur, Stiles knew, “—demon. 'Cause that's exactly what you are, aren’t you,” Derek sneered, spitting out the word demon as if it was a curse, or perhaps because it was one.

But Stiles wasn’t listening to him—couldn't listen to him, unable to do anything but focus on the hatred filling Derek's words rather than their meaning.

Not only that, but he couldn’t breath. He tried sucking air into his lungs as quickly as possible in case it would be his last opportunity to. Which only resulted in him becoming even more light-headed, his vision blacking out for a few seconds against his will.

His ears rang with a sound of their own, his blood gushing and pulse hammering with the overwhelming force of tides of blood crashing against his ear-drums.

Stiles only distantly felt the pressure on his windpipe being lifted. His body was limp and, unsupported by what had pinned him against the wall, he felt his knees buckle and mentally prepared himself for an uncomfortable collision with the floor. But before his could fall far, hands caught him from his underarms and he fell into a pair of arms against which he went limp.

He felt himself being lowered to the floor, to which he shakily complied, allowing himself to be manhandled into a sitting position with one shoulder to the wall, his body twisted so that his back faced the majority of the room.

He dug the heels of his hands firmly into his eye-sockets, as if trying to rub the blurriness out of his sight. His hands came away wet. He snatched another precious breath back into his lungs, the pressure in his chest easing slightly.

Distantly, he recalled how he’d been taught to handle panic attacks when he was younger. _Breath in, one, two three...Breath out, one two three..._ He remembered his mom's death, and he and his dad helping each other through the shattering grief and the sense of abandonment and disarray.

The enormity of what he had done suddenly struck Stiles. His dad. He was alone in that house, wondering whether his only son was dead or worse, alone to deal with and process the grief.

But Stiles wasn’t dead. He deserved to be, but he wasn't. He had left his father, the only other person on earth who would love him unconditionally, and Stiles had betrayed that love. He left him without more than a scrawled note that didn’t even say goodbye because back then Stiles hadn’t been ready for closure but now it was too late.

His father would probably turn to junk food for comfort. He’d probably eventually die of a heart, if alcoholism or carelessness at work didn’t kill him first.

But no matter the actual cause, it was Stiles' fault. His fault that his father no longer had a son, no longer had a family. And all the while Stiles was lazing around his apartment doing fuck-all, all the while allowing his hunger to fester rather than abandoning his cowardice and actually trying to do something about it—

Somewhere amongst the panic and not being able to breath he vaguely recognised the feeling of something rubbing his back—a hand, slowly, soothingly stroking in circles. It was something that caught Stiles off guard for a few seconds, so much so that he was distracted from his haywire thoughts for a moment, effectively breaking the chain reaction, preventing the panic attack from spiralling further out of his control.

Instead of shying away from the hand, which he knew he should have done, he leant into it. He could feel the tightness in his chest subsiding slightly, replaced with an entirely different feeling.

His eyes stung and the wetness slid down his cheeks. He buried his face in the crook of his elbow, crying hysterically as he mumbled and blurted and rambled, words tumbling out of his mouth without permission.He could barely tell that what he was saying was in English, let alone intelligible in any way.

He was able to get his breath back, but only just. The hysterics gradually faded, leaving him sobbing quietly into his own arms. All the while, the palm rubbing circles into his back never ceased, and as he calmed, Stiles began to notice that a voice was murmuring softly in his ear.

“Shh, it's okay,” the voice whispered beside his shoulder, strong and masculine and reassuring, accompanied by the warm palm on his back. “It’s okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Slowly, with his heart still pounding painfully but steadier regardless, Stiles dared to turn his head a little to face Derek, who currently crouched beside him so close that Stiles could feel the heat radiating from his body.

The moment Stiles’ tear-filled, reddened eyes met the werewolf’s wide ones, Derek looked away. A second later, he held a glass of water up to his lips. “Here, drink this.”

It was an order, but Derek spoke softly as he commanded the incubus. Stiles found that it was exactly what he needed to take control of his body again. As the cool glass was pressed against his lips, he brought up his shaking hands to tip it back and the water splashed into his mouth, wetting his dry throat and tongue. Some droplets dribbled down his chin, but he didn’t bother wiping them away before he’d emptied the glass and Derek had prised it from his grip.

Between hiccupping breaths, Stiles managed to shakily force out, “You’re—you’re right.”

A pause. “About what?” Derek asked, voice low and calm.

“I-I'm a monster,” Stiles sobbed. “I’m a demon, I’m...”

When Derek made to get up, panic once again flared up inside Stiles. “Wait! Please wait!” he cried as he grabbed the werewolf by the front of his shirt. “I would never hurt anyone—I’ve never, I-I wouldn’t, please don’t—”

“Stiles,” Derek said firmly, pulling Stiles’ fisted hands from his shirt. “I believe you. It’s okay. You can stop crying.”

Snivelling, Stiles flushed red and mumbled, “S-sorry.”

“No, don’t—that’s not…” Derek sighed, frustrated. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have approached you like that. But—but you do need to know some things.”

Stiles nodded hastily. “Yes, okay.”

“I appreciate that you haven’t hurt anyone,” Derek began, slowly and carefully, as if Stiles were a wild animal that needed to be calmed. “But I cannot allow for any leniency. You’re in hunter territory. And if you ever harm anyone, I will know about it. And I will not hesitate to get the hunters involved. Have I made myself clear?”

Stiles swallowed and nodded, staring at the floor as if it could swallow him up at any moment and spare him of the pain of living.

There was a tense pause, before, “Stiles?”

“Yeah?” he muttered without looking up.

“I’ve got a client now.”

“Hmm.”

“Will you…Will you be okay? If I leave you?” the werewolf asked, having the decency to sound like he cared.

Stiles forced a bitter smile. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

“You sure? I can cancel if—”

“I used to have panic attacks all the time when I was younger, so… I’m used to them, I guess,” Stiles said, trying for reassuring but his voice came out shuddery and small.

He didn’t catch Derek’s expression before the werewolf turned and left. He was too exhausted to pick himself up from the floor, and just sat, waiting for Derek’s session to begin in order to regain his energy.

Eventually, with the client having done his business, Stiles was left feeling a little less tired but no less depressed. And with the energy he now possessed, he found himself crying again. Derek’s words and images of his disappointed father buzzed around his head as he sobbed himself to sleep.


	2. Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry for the long wait... I was planning on adding another scene, but this got so long that I'll just add that to to beginning of the next part :) 
> 
> Also, thank you so much to everyone that commented with such kind words :) you all make my day xxxx
> 
> Enjoy!

It was the following week when Stiles finally got a job. After an application process that was far too lengthy for a job as a barista, Stiles managed to get a face-to-face meeting with the manager, a round, rosy-faced Italian man in his forties who looked a tad too Luca Brasi-tribute for Stiles to trust him readily (he would have felt bad for the stereotyping, but he figured that because (a) he was originally Polish, and (b) the manager was practically asking for it, he was entitled to a little prejudice).

And he wasn’t wrong. He had expected to have to show some credentials, perhaps prove he wasn’t an illegal Polish immigrant or something. But the manager simply raked his eyes up and down Stiles’ body, in a way that had Stiles wanting to take a bath, and said with a thick Mediterranean accent, “Hmm, yes. You’ll do, Bambino.”

And that was how he found himself working five nine-hour shifts a week, dealing perpetually with customers that were, for the most part, either difficult or creepy. Brilliant.

Each day would end in bone-deep tiredness after having been on his feet for his entire shift, and all for eleven dollars forty-eight an hour. Also brilliant.

Stiles ended up sleeping for most of his days off. He supposed it wasn’t particularly productive, but eventually decided that he was lucky enough to actually have a job-,his situation could be much, much worse.

He could be a prostitute instead, his brain helpfully supplied. Which… true. Stiles was aware that he couldn’t really fathom what it was really like to have to do something like that for a living. He wondered how Derek ended up in that profession in the first place, and exactly how young he was when he had his first client. Derek was older than Stiles, but not by such an insurmountable amount that Stiles wasn’t able to sympathise with his situation.

Not that Derek needed Stiles' sympathy. Of course not. No. Derek was a very manly, very wolfy, independent werewolf with manly eyebrows, who dined on the fear of his enemies and scared the shit out of Stiles. No, Derek didn’t need sympathy, or help. Not at all. Nope.

Not that it made much difference. Even if Stiles wanted to make friends with the guy, Derek still scared him. Quite a bit. Not to mention the fact that Derek wasn't exactly keen on Stiles either. So given that his companionship was all he had to offer, steering clear of Derek was probably for the best. Not avoiding him completely, per say. Just… not going out of his way to interact with his werewolf neighbour (lest his PTSD from their previous violent encounter triggers another panic attack, Stiles thought sardonically. Jesus, Derek must really think Stiles was a wimp).

Stiles actually hadn't seen Derek for over a week when Derek appeared, suddenly, in the last place Stiles expected him to- which was, coincidentally, Stiles’ place of work. 

There wasn't a queue leading up to the counter when the doorbell rang, announcing Derek's presence. The moment Derek walked in, leather jacket-clad, body held in an awkward way that Stiles was beginning to associate with the werewolf, Derek froze, as if immediately recognising Stiles’ scent which, Stiles supposed, could be true without being entirely disconcerting. 

Stiles was, in fact, ninety-nine percent sure that Derek was about to turn heel and walk out again as the werewolf looked up at him over the counter, their gazes clashing for what was a painful and anxiety-triggering few moments, especially with Derek's no-less-terrifying-than-when-Stiles-saw-them-last eyebrows furrowing threateningly.

But Derek didn’t leave. After the tense pause, he tentatively approached the counter. 

“Hi Derek,” Stiles squeaked in greeting, suddenly wishing he was on cleaning-up duty rather than at the cash register. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Derek didn’t look particularly impressed. “So you work here then?”

Before he could stop himself, Stiles snorted. “What, my name-tag doesn’t give it away? It literally says ‘staff’.” 

Stiles snapped his mouth shut. God, why was he such an idiot?

To his surprise, Derek didn’t bite his head off for being mouthy, as he was entitled to as a customer. The werewolf looked down at his feet, glaring at the floor rather than at Stiles (Stiles could have sworn he saw blush creeping up Derek’s neck, but he could have been imagining it) as he muttered, “Can I just get my coffee, please?”

“Err…” Stiles laughed awkwardly. Shit. “Yeah. Sorry, I didn’t mean to...I tend to just say what comes into my head, y’know? Sorry. Uh, what would you like?”

Derek’s response was immediate. “Americano. Four shots.”

A manly drink. A manly man’s drink. “Right-o,” Stiles said with forced enthusiasm. “Anything else with that? Flavourings? Toppings? Milk? We have this cinnamon syrup stuff which is a-ma-zing. I’m telling you, dude. I’ve had it before. I mean, not with an americano. I’m a latte kinda guy. But, like, it’s still great with any coffee, I think. So yeah. Cinnamon syrup. Ten out of ten would recommend.”

Derek blinked slowly once.

Stiles cleared his throat. “So, yeah. Want anything else with your Americano?”

Appearing to think for a moment, Derek cleared his throat and said, albeit hesitantly, “Okay, yeah, I’ll try it with the cinnamon syrup.”

Stiles beamed. “Great choice. Anything else?” Derek shook his head. “Okay. That’s three dollars forty-five.” Once Derek had paid, Stiles said, “Take a seat. I’ll bring it over in a sec.”

Derek nodded, almost solemnly, and made his way to the furthest corner of the coffee shop, promptly sitting down, setting his bag in the chair next to him, and pulling out a book; the title imprinted on the paper-back read Heart of Darkness, a novel Stiles knew only the premise and basic themes of. But even he understood that it was definitely a book suited to the overpoweringly bitterness of an americano (plus cinnamon syrup, to Stiles’ somewhat muted delight).

He watched Derek out of the corner of his eye as he brewed the coffee himself, allowing a fellow employee to take over the cashier desk. The werewolf’s eyebrows were still drawn together and the corners of his mouth were down-turned slightly, giving him a distinctly unhappy expression.

The frown was probably because of the book, Stiles told himself, but even so, the sight of a man sitting near the back of a mostly empty coffee shop, frowning to himself and his book, was one that caused something in his heart to clench, perhaps in pity, perhaps in sympathy. Because if there was one thing that the incubus and the werewolf had in common, besides being creatures of the night, it was that they both were inclined towards seclusion.

Stiles didn't like to dwell on it, but he really was lonely. The only person in the whole world- besides the giver of the bite-mark on his collarbone- who knew of his predicament was a man who'd assaulted him upon realising that he was a demon, and as a result, lonely or not, Stiles had no inclination to approach Derek when unnecessary. 

Besides. Even if Stiles wanted to be friendly with Derek, the fact that he regularly listened in on Derek’s very private work life made things awkward enough from Stiles’ perspective. On a regular basis, with not only the purpose of fulfilling Stiles’ basic needs for survival, but also providing material for Stiles’ Stiles Time, he would violate his neighbour's privacy.

Stiles knew what sound Derek made when he came. He knew what sound he made when he was only pretending to come. He knew so well those moans and whines the werewolf made when he was genuinely enjoying something, no matter how rare that occasion was. He knew what sorts of things turned Derek on (topping, as far as Stiles could tell, although Derek didn't often get to top) just as he knew what sorts of things Derek was never fully comfortable with (Stiles’ mental list for that one was disturbingly long, especially given that he could only hear what was happening above him).

Stiles knew all these things, and more. How was he supposed to look Derek in the eye when he knew all these private things about him? How was he supposed to talk to him when Derek didn't know how Stiles had come to look forward to his client’s visits? How was he supposed to brew the man's coffee when only the night before he'd actually masturbated to the sound of Derek being cruelly pounded into the creaking bed above him-

He couldn’t help it, okay? Perhaps it made him a bad person. To his credit, afterwards, with his hunger satisfied and come soaking through his boxers, he would always feel awful. Guilt and regret would replace his hunger, something just as unpleasant but unfortunately wouldn’t actually kill him. 

He’d even cry sometimes. Not that it made it any less wrong. But at least becoming a demon-incubus-monstrosity hadn’t completely destroyed his conscience.

He shook his head as if to physically be rid of his spiralling thoughts. He didn't need them now, not whilst he was making coffee. Having artfully added the cinnamon syrup as a finishing touch, he took the americano over to where Derek was glaring at the well-worn pages of The Heart of Darkness. 

“Here's your Americano with cinnamon syrup,” Stiles piped up as cheerfully as he could muster, placing the coffee down with hands that were ever-so-slightly quivery. 

“Thank you,” Derek replied politely, before turning back to his book without so much as glancing at the coffee. When Stiles didn't move, Derek turned back to Stiles with mild annoyance. “What is it now?”

“N-no, it's nothing,” Stiles stammered in reply. “I just… I was wondering whether you liked the cinnamon syrup or not. It was my suggestion, so if you don't like it I can make you another without the syrup.”

Derek raised an incredulous eyebrow, but nonetheless obediently took a sip of his coffee. After a couple of moment where he appeared to be contemplating, he said, “It's… sweet. I don't usually have anything like this. But it's…” He glanced up at Stiles through his lashes. “It’s fine. You don't have to make another. Thank you, Stiles.”

Stiles had been hoping for a little more than just an “it’s fine”, but at least Derek didn’t hate it. He gave the werewolf the brightest beam he could manage, before saying, “Great! Glad I could, uh, be of service. Sorry for bothering you.”

Before Derek could reply, Stiles was hurrying back to the counter. It was enough that he was wasting Derek’s time, but he himself had mugs to wash up. And cappuccinos to brew. And getting fired on his first day of work wasn’t exactly something he was in a position to afford. 

As he continued working, he couldn’t help but glance over to Derek, who was still frowning at his book, idly stirring his coffee. 

Eventually, his eyes and concentration having overcome Derek’s apparent magnetism, Stiles found himself blissfully absorbed in the wonderful meniality of coffee-brewing. And, hours later, Stiles’ mind flitted back to the werewolf. But when he looked up, Derek was gone, his empty mug and saucer placed neatly on the tray.

Stiles went over to clear the table, and before he discarded the napkins, he noticed something tucked beneath the saucer. It was kind of Derek to leave a tip, Stiles supposed, if not a little weird for a coffee shop.

He unfolded the notes, which he had assumed were dollar notes, but he stopped abruptly. 

The tip, he realised, was ridiculous. It was at least a hundred times the amount Stiles was supposed to get, given the disturbing number of twenties. 

But Stiles didn't stop to count them. Instead, he discreetly pocketed the cash before anyone could ask. He'd decide what to do with it later.

Perhaps he could give it back to Derek, saying it was just too much and he simply couldn't accept it. Or he could take the offering. He really did need cash like this. Any help he could get was invaluable. Perhaps Derek understood that and that was why he left such a ridiculous tip.

Because what the fuck. One hundred dollars was what Stiles counted out when he got back to his apartment. One hundred dollars. A tip for one hundred dollars. A tip. One hundr- no, nope. Stiles was having none of that. No matter how poor Derek must think he is - which is poorer than dirt poor, FYI, as in, he’s not even rich in dirt - a tip that ridiculous must have been an accident. Maybe he thought the twenty dollar notes were one dollar notes. Maybe he had left a few too many notes. Maybe it had already been there when he sat down. Maybe-

Maybe it was dirty money! That wouldn’t be such a stretch, Stiles realised with mild horror. Derek was a prostitute, a job which was in itself illegal. Chances were, Derek had a pimp, which would link him to other aspects of crime by association. It would be perfectly plausible that Derek could have other jobs involved in organised crime. Perhaps the money he left Stiles was leftover cash that he couldn’t launder for some reason. Maybe he’d ask Stiles for it back at a later date, after he’d spent it, so that it would be untraceable--

Stiles quickly halted his thoughts in their tracks, before they could get any more adventurous with tormenting Stiles’ growing paranoia. Who could blame him though. If werewolves and incubi were real, gangsters laundering their money through impoverished baristas was a no-brainer, really. 

Even so, Stiles still felt he should at least give Derek the benefit of the doubt. After all, the werewolf wasn’t the only one who made a living off of his clients. Stiles literally lived on them. As in feeding on their life-force without their knowing. He should be grateful, even if Derek was unbeknownst to his feeding habits. 

But that still didn't mean Stiles shouldn't give Derek his money back. Accepting it wasn't something Stiles knew he could do without a dirty conscience--it would bug him, bother him and burn a hole in his wallet until he eventually gives in and gives it back out of guilt. He couldn't take a hundred dollar tip from anyone, let alone from a hooker who probably had financial problems himself who probably gave Stiles the money either by accident or as compensation for literally who he was, because if there was one thing Stiles knew about Derek, it was that he had self-hatred issues on astronomical levels. 

And how Stiles knew that? Simply from the way that the werewolf would glare at the floor even when he was alone, and appeared to have as many friends and family in San Francisco as Stiles did.

Nonetheless, Stiles couldn't help but stare longingly at the precious notes in his grasp. He really needed it. At the moment, at least. It would help with rent, and renovating his apartment. He wouldn't have to sleep on the plastic sheet that came with his mattress, now that he could afford to wash his own sheets with the water bill. It would… 

Yeah, that hundred dollars was exactly what he needed at that moment, Stiles finally admitted to himself. If he were particularly opportunistic, he'd have decided to keep the cash long ago.

But he would pay Derek back. He really would. Once he had his life on track, and was comfortable that he'd be able to pay rent on time, he'd pay his neighbour back.

It was the least he could do.

…

And so, to Stiles’ surprise, Derek continued visiting the café he worked at, always coming through the door when the shop was the least busy and like clockwork he would sit at the same table every single time, ordering the same coffee (an americano with cinnamon syrup, which Derek would often order with a small, shy smile pulling at the corner of his lips that made Stiles’ stomach do strange things in response). The only thing that changed each time was the book Derek was reading. So far, from what Stiles could tell, the werewolf was very well read. He didn't know why it particularly surprised him. It wasn't like he thought hookers couldn't read.

Nearly every time Derek came to him to order, he would think about asking Derek about the hundred dollar tip. To Stiles’ relief, Derek didn't leave him any more tips that ludicrous. Now the tips were often twenty dollar notes left lying on the table, which was still way too much to be insignificant, but was of course significantly less. 

The incubus didn't know quite what to think of it. Should he be insulted? Was this Derek taking back his previous offering? Was he regretting giving Stiles the money? Did he want to take it back? But no, that wouldn’t make sense. Derek was still churning out twenties at least twice a week…

Stiles eventually gave up, deciding that overanalyzing was pointless, especially when he could literally just walk up to Derek and fucking ask him like a normal person would. But then again, he wasn’t a normal person. And neither was Derek. So he reserved the right not to be brave enough to ask him.

Eventually the questions slipped his mind, and the odd twenty-dollar tip from Derek every-so-often became the norm. Sometimes he’d be serving Derek, sometimes he’d be on table-clearing duty when he came in. He would always avoid clearing Derek’s table, though, deciding that he would prefer not knowing whether the huge tips were for him, or just a thing that Derek liked to do for every caterer he came across. He’d definitely be better off not knowing. Besides, what better strategy was there than to bury his head in the sand until all his problems went away?

There wasn’t, in fact, a better strategy. Or one that Stiles knew of, anyway. And ignoring his problems even worked up until a point, that precise point occurring at three in the afternoon, the twenty-fourth of December that very same year. 

By then, Stiles had been working at the shop for two months, and he’d successfully managed to avoid any more confrontation with his werewolf-hooker neighbour. Derek never asked him about his demonic habits, seemingly satisfied that Stiles wasn’t a demon of the harmful kind. Nor did Derek ever ask for his money back. Nor did he slam him against ny more walls. Life was good.

That was, until Thanksgiving. That day had been bad enough for Stiles. His homesickness hit him twice as hard that day, the absence of his father and best friend almost as glaring as it had been when Stiles first moved to San Francisco. He and his dad would usually spend it together, in memory of Claudia Stilinski, who had always been an advocate for family gatherings, even small ones. Or sometimes he and his dad would visit Scott and Melissa. Either way, he was never alone on Thanksgiving. Until now.

Not only that, but Stiles was hungry. Really, fucking hungry. Derek hadn't had a client the previous night, and it was doubtful that he'd have one that evening. The gnawing hunger was making Stiles grouchy too. It was a good thing there weren't many customers around, or he'd almost definitely have a couple of customer complaints filed against him (not that that would be of any concern--the manager loved him).

To make matters worse, the coffee shop was closing early for Thanksgiving. Stiles offered to do the final tidy-up and lock-up once the rest of the employees left. Which he did. Only he was taking his time with it. Pretending he was being useful in an empty café was easier than moping around his empty apartment, wistfully lamenting about the past and what would, could or should have been. 

Not that the different scenery prevented his loneliness and angst from rearing it's ugly, two-faced head. Moping was inevitable. The emptiness and sheer silence of the shop was practically jeering at him, taunting him, making him feel small and misplaced and wrong.

What did draw him out of his thoughts, however, was something that he wouldn't usually expect to distract him from his torment: a customer. And not just any old customer.

Having recovered from the initial surprise, Stiles gathered his wits and opened his mouth to speak. “Derek?” he called out from behind the counter where he was wiping down the surfaces for the third time.

The werewolf was standing near the entrance, hands shoved in his pockets, looking around the café with what, oddly, could be perceived either as confusion or indifference. His eyebrows were furrowed into a frown, but Stiles had come to learn that that could mean anything from mild amusement to blazing anger. But this time, to Stiles’ relief, Derek didn't seem like he wanted to tear his throat out. Baby steps, Stiles thought.

When Derek didn't answer straight away, apparently ignoring him, Stiles called out again. “We're--we're closing up early for Thanksgiving. If you were wondering.”

Then Derek's gaze finally met Stiles’. A myriad of emotions flickered behind the carefully schooled expression he bore, perhaps disappointment, realisation, annoyance and exasperation. Although not in that order. Only then did Derek manage a simple, “Oh. Right.”

Before the werewolf could say or do anything else (like, for example, leave, as Stiles in hindsight should have let him), and before Stiles himself knew exactly what he was doing and why, he called out to Derek. “I can make you a quick coffee though. I'll close up after. There's still--uh, there's still cinnamon syrup left. It you like.”

Stiles could barely refrain from cringing as he caught a glimpse of Derek’s expression; the werewolf looked like he wanted to be there as much as Stiles did. But that didn’t stop Derek from saying, “That would be great, thanks. If you don’t mind.”

“Americano with cinnamon syrup coming right up,” Stiles said with a smile that may or may not have looked like a grimace.

If Derek noticed, he didn’t say anything. Instead, he took a seat on one of the stools at the bar--something he never did, usually preferring his self-designated table in the far corner of the shop--and waited patiently as Stiles brewed the coffee.

Following an only slightly painful silence, interrupted only by the sound of the espresso machine, Stiles cleared his throat and said, “So. Taking a break from Thanksgiving? Spending it with anyone?” 

When there was no answer at first, Stiles looked up to find Derek staring blankly at his own hands. “No,” he said after a couple more seconds.

“No? No family, or...”

Derek blinked tiredly and sucked in a languid breath through his nose. “My sister lives in New York. She has her own family.” His voice was monotone and devoid of feeling as he spoke.

“That’s a shame,” Stiles felt himself saying, falling easily into the barista small-talk mode. “You don’t have any family living in San Fran, then?”

Somewhat reluctantly, Derek answered with, “My uncle lived somewhere in California, last time I checked. We don’t talk unless we absolutely have to, though.”

“Well...I’m not visiting family this Thanksgiving either,” Stiles volunteered without prompt, seeing as Derek was probably not going to ask any time soon. “I mean, I would. They live in California too. But...” He gestured to himself. “Y’know.” 

Derek raised his eyebrows slightly. “I actually don’t.”

“Me. Demon,” Stiles said dumbly. “Had a nasty encounter a few months ago and wound up like this. Anyway. Here’s your coffee!”

Derek took the cup and saucer from his outstretched hand and slid off his bar stool. “You wanna sit over there?” he asked, somewhat awkwardly, nodding towards the booths by the window.

Stiles smiled weakly, not feeling particularly like he had a choice. It was either sit with Derek or clean the bar for the fourth time while the werewolf finished his coffee. “Okay. I don’t see why not.”

Derek slid into the booth with his back facing the window, and Stiles sat on the adjacent edge--perpendicular to Derek--of the table so that they weren’t sitting on the same side, nor were they sitting opposite each other. That way it felt less like a date, which Stiles found was an odd comfort.

Having taken a sip of his drink, Derek composed himself and said, “So, what happened when your family found out you became a demon?”

“They didn't,” Stiles answered tightly.

Derek frowned. “What?”

“They didn't find out,” he elaborated woodenly. “When I found out, I upped and left pronto.”

If it was possible, Derek's frown deepened. “You left. Just like that.”

“Uh huh.”

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

Baffled, Derek said, “If you don't mind me asking… Why? Is your family anti-supe or something?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Stiles said quickly. “And by family I mean my dad. And my best friend, who's a werewolf, by the way, so…”

“I don't understand why you wouldn't tell them,” Derek said, almost as if he were scolding Stiles like a child. “If it wasn't your fault, then you should have. You can always get, uh, help for the condition.”

Stiles snorted mirthlessly. “Help. Right.”

“Yes. Help,” the werewolf reiterated. “Therapy programs. Accessible animal blood. There may not be a cure, but there's still--"

“I don't feed on blood,” the incubus immediately said, before he could stop himself.

A beat. “Then what do you… How can you…”

“It’s not, like, children or virgins. Or human souls. Don’t worry.”

“Then what--”

“It doesn't matter,” Stiles snapped. He then said, tone a little softer, “I don't hurt anyone. Ever. I swear. But no, I'm not your run-of-the-mill blood demon. Vampire--whatever you wanna call it. Yeah, I wasn't that lucky.”

He cast his eyes quickly up to meet Derek’s, who's steely gaze was fixed on him with an uncomfortably stern look in his eye.

“Thing is,” Stiles continued, “my dad's the Sheriff. I could have told him about my... condition, as you call it. But, by law he'd have to inform the state. And I may not have been allowed to live with him. In--my kind are pretty rare. Not much is known about us, and what is known tends just to be the negative stuff.”

“Are you dangerous?” Derek asked, sounding mildly alarmed but mostly curious.

Stiles shrugged. “I've handled things well so far, so I don't think so,” he said noncommittally. “But as far as the state goes, I'm unlicensed and in the possession of some potentially--potentially dangerous, uh, abilities, sort of. It would have been years before I'd be allowed to be a normal citizen again,” he explained. “And I probably wouldn’t’ve been allowed to go to college. Being a werewolf, I'm sure you know all about supe-discrimination,” he said, smiling bitterly.

He sighed and continued. “At least having moved here, my dad won't have to deal with all this demon business. And I'll be able to complete college online courses. It’s all good.”

There was a pause before Derek spoke again. “So why San Francisco? Why not stay home and hide your condition there?”

“Well, for starters, no one knows me here,” Stiles said with a crooked grin. “If anyone found out, small-town gossip would've made sure everyone knew about it. That, and because there are more opportunities for...uh, feeding, here.”

“Feeding,” Derek repeated.

Scratching the back of his neck, Stiles said, “Yeah… I'd thought I would need to go to extra lengths to keep myself going, but… well. Things have turned out pretty well here. Circumstances have worked out quite conveniently, I think.”

Derek seemed oddly stiff when he said in response, “Good. I'm glad.”

If only you knew. Stiles cleared his throat. “Besides. With my best friend being a werewolf, and an alpha at that, I probably would’ve been kicked out of the pack or something.”

Derek had the decency to seem surprised. “Your best friend’s the alpha and you think they’d kick you out?”

Shrugging once again, Stiles said, “Well. It’s not like I was really in the pack in the first place. Y’know. Being human and all.”

The werewolf leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Humans can be pack too.”

Slightly distracted by the way that Derek’s muscles were bulging even through his jacket, Stiles blinked and said, “Right.”

“No, really,” Derek insisted, as if he thought Stiles didn’t believe him. “When I was growing up, about a quarter of our pack members were human. I had a brother who was human. Cousins. Grandparents. Uncle Peter’s wife was human, and his daughter too.”

Stiles couldn’t help but stare at him, partially bewildered by the sudden intensity and feeling and warmth he displayed, something Stiles had never seen him come close to. But there was also an old kind of pain and longing. And the blaring use of past-tense.

“Where are they now?” Stiles dared to ask.

“Where are who?” Derek responded, somewhat tight-lipped.

“Your pack,” the incubus softly clarified. “You only mentioned your sister and your uncle before.”

“They’re…” Derek looked down at his coffee, as if the answers were at the bottom of the cup, amongst the watery dregs. “Gone. Dead. There was a fire.”

Stiles felt sick. “A fire?” he asked weakly.

The werewolf clenched and unclenched his jaw. “Hunters,” he muttered stiffly. “Laura and I weren’t at the house. There was a fire, and wolfsbane kept them inside. Peter was the only survivor, but he was in a coma for six years after it happened.”

“How long ago was it?”

“I was fifteen at the time, so… fourteen years now.”

Fourteen years ago. A whole family burning alive in one house, unable to escape. It sounded all too familiar. Stiles recognised it as “the Hale fire”, his dad being involved with it when he was younger. 

Realisation sparked within him. So this, he thought, must be Derek Hale. 

“My God, that’s awful,” he eventually said.

“It was a long time ago,” Derek murmured.

“Yeah, but still.” Stiles swallowed, throat dry, suddenly wishing he’d steered the conversation in a less grim direction instead of asking more questions. He was curious, okay? “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

And with that, Derek’s mood abruptly snapped. “Why? I didn’t go through anything,” he practically snarled. “Peter did. He nearly burned alive. The rest of my family actually burned alive. I went through absolutely fuck all.”

Stiles held his palms up in mock surrender. “Dude, calm down, I’m not disputing any of that. They--they must’ve been through--it must have been awful. I know. I know.” When Derek visibly calmed, Stiles continued. “It’s just that I know what it’s like to lose someone. And to lose your whole family, so many people, I…” 

He trailed off, a sudden mental exhaustion catching up with him, something he rarely experienced, having lived with ADD his whole life. But it was Derek who then spoke: “Sorry. I don’t get to talk about my family often,” he said a little sheepishly. “And I’m… I’m not good at talking, so…”

“Neither am I dude.” Derek raised a questioning eyebrow. “No, really. I might talk a lot--like, a lot a lot, some of the time--but I mostly just end up pissing people off. Or boring them.”

When Derek smiled at that, Stiles felt something inside him flutter. Internally, he celebrated being able to make Derek, brooding frowner extraordinaire, actually, genuinely smile. Externally, however, was another matter.

Stiles gasped in mock offence. “What ever happened to “no, you're not boring Stiles" and “you never talk too much Stiles" and “I love the sound of your voice Stiles". Huh? Huh?”

As if it was possible, Derek's smile widened, revealing his impossibly white, impossibly adorable bunny teeth. “I guess being shit at communicating is something we have in common, then,” the werewolf commented.

Stiles was grinning so hard it hurt. “Yeah, who would have thunked. A werewolf and a demon having so much in common.”

“That was just one thing.”

“I know. But there's plenty more we have in common I'm sure.”

Still smiling, Derek raised an eyebrow in a manner that could possibly be described as flirtatious. “Like what.”

“Well.” Besides the dead relatives and having no friends or family to spend thanksgiving with. “You like coffee. I like serving coffee. Uh. You like wearing leather jackets. I like seeing you wear leather jackets…”

Oh my God Stilinski why would you say that. Why. You fucking idiot.

But instead of giving Stiles a disgusted look, as expected, the werewolf looked down and honest to god blushed, pink creeping over the top of his immaculately groomed beard, before saying, “You like serving coffee then, do you?”

It was Stiles’ turn to blush. “Well, not exactly, no. It’s more the money that I get paid when serving coffee. And getting tips from the odd customer.”

Derek froze. If he hadn’t, then Stiles wouldn’t have remembered. But it then struck him. The tip.

“Hey I was meaning to ask you about those tips!” he blurted out before he could contain his words. “I-I mean, did you actually mean them? Like, it wasn’t an accident or anything, right? ‘Cause I can give the money back, if you like.”

Derek gave him a deadpanned look. “How can someone accidentally leave one-hundred-dollar tips on multiple occasions?” 

“That’s what I was asking you,” Stiles said defensively, ducking his head to avoid Derek’s mocking smirk. “But seriously though. I can give it all back.”

The teasing expression dropped from Derek’s face almost immediately. “I meant for you to have it. You need it more than I do.”

Stiles huffed. “You know, I really want to say no.”

“You don’t--”

“I mean, seriously. It’s so embarrassing that I-- I have to accept it. I’d be mad not to because fuck knows I need it. But you, your charity and your pity--”

“Stiles.”

“I can pay you back.”

“Stiles,” the werewolf reiterated. “It’s a gift. It’s yours.”

“It’s over a thousand dollars Derek!” the he cried, hysteria threatening to overwhelm him.

“I don't want it.”

“The fuck do you mean you don't want a thousand fucking dollars?! Is it illegal? Am I getting unlaundered money?”

“The fuck?! No. It's not money I've earned from that. It's not illegal at all. I swear.”

“Then why--”

“Stiles,” Derek pleaded. “Just take it. For the love of God, take the mone--"

And then Stiles kissed him. He didn't know why, exactly. He just leaned forwards, whilst Derek was preoccupied, and covered the werewolf’s lips with his own.

He held the kiss for a moment; for one earth-shattering moment where everything else seemed to flee his mind, blood thundering in his ears and his eyes clenched shut against the world.

And it was blissful. It truly was. He couldn't tell whether it was the demon part of him that craved the lustful contact or the human part that simply wanted the touch, the embrace of another living being. But, for those few seconds, he didn't care in the slightest.

But the moment was completely shattered when he realised that Derek had frozen beneath him; stock still, neither pushing the incubus away nor pulling him closer nor reciprocating the kiss in any way. 

Stiles instantly jerked back, although their faces were still level with each other. Ice flooded through his veins as he stared in horror as Derek's expression turned from angry to hurt to completely devoid of emotion.

“Derek, I-I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I didn't mean to…”

Voice low and threateningly calm, Derek asked, “Is that really what you think I want from you?”

It took Stiles a moment to grasp exactly what Derek meant. “What- no. No, that's… Derek, I promise you that's not what I thought. That didn't even cross my mind.”

Still maintaining his dangerous serenity, the werewolf asked, “Why did you do it then?”

“I…” That was a good question. Why had he done it? “Because I wanted to thank you.” Realising how awful that sounded, he added, “And I didn't know how to, so I...”

Before the disgusted look on Derek's face could manifest itself properly, Stiles then blurted out, “And because I like you!” 

He almost face-palmed right there and then. God it was so embarrassing.

Not seeing any other way out of the situation, Stiles spluttered, “Okay, I-I’m just gonna- I'm gonna go and, uh--”

“Stiles. Stop.”

Just as the incubus made to leave, there was a hand on his arm that prevented him from doing so.

“Can I at least leave with my dignity?” Stiles asked quietly.

Derek ignored him. “You know why I can't, right?” he said, leaving Stiles unable to tell whether the regret in his voice was genuine or not.

At the implication of those words, Stiles’ heart sunk even further. He yanked his arm harder than necessary to free himself from Derek’s grasp. He took the half-finished but now probably cold coffee, never daring to meet the werewolf’s gaze with his own watery one, and stormed off back to the coffee station. 

For a moment, Derek didn’t follow him. Stiles felt eyes tracing every jerky movement he made as he washed-up the cup and put away various things that were lying around in a manner that could only be described as passive-aggressive, a little like a toddler throwing a tantrum, but Stiles felt too hurt to take it any less personally.

When Derek eventually approached the bar, Stiles still stubbornly refused to acknowledge his presence. Neither of them spoke a word for at least a minute, but then: “Stiles,” Derek said, barely above a whisper. “Please understand.”

Stiles couldn't help himself. “Understand what?” he snapped.

“I-I thought we could be friends, at least.”

Derek looked taken aback, as if Stiles was the one hurting him, not the other way round. It was too infuriating for Stiles to not respond to: “Oh yeah? And why the fuck would anyone want to be friends with a demon, huh?”

When Stiles looked up, waiting for some half-arsed excuse about it not being personal or some shit, Derek was just looking at him. Nothing else. He was wearing his characteristic blank expression, eyes unwavering as they were set on Stiles. 

There were a few seconds of stormy silence before it quickly became awkward. Stiles’ previous anger lifted a little. Not much, but just enough for him to speak with a somewhat softer tone as said, “What. You just gave the impression that you didn't care about me being… y’know. And I thought maybe…” 

“Stiles.”

“You know what? It doesn't matter. Pretend I never said anything.”

“Stiles, please,” Derek reiterated, leaning further over the counter. “It's not you.”

“You don't have to-"

“Yes, I do!” Derek exclaimed, as if he'd known what Stiles was going to say. “I'm a whore. Do you know what that means?”

Stiles winced. “You're a prostitute, yes, I… I know what that means,” he said a little helplessly.

“I don't think you do,” the werewolf accused.“I'll tell you. It means I get fucked by men at least seven times a week.”

“I don't-”

There was a crazed glint in Derek’s eyes as he said, “That is all I am. That is all there is to me. To- to have a relationship outside of work would be difficult enough. But a sexual relationship? I can't do that.”

Stiles took a step backwards. The intensity with which the werewolf was speaking was threatening in the least. And there was something off about Derek's words, something Stiles couldn't put a finger on, something wrong.

Probably sensing Stiles’ unease, Derek's expression softened. “It wouldn't be fair on me, Stiles.” Softer still. “It wouldn't be fair on you.”

Stiles swallowed and looked downwards, refusing to feel ashamed. Every trace of residual anger had evaporated, leaving a hollow feeling within him. Way to make me feel bad, asshole, he almost burst out, but he bit his lip before he could make the situation any worse. 

During his stunned silence, he barely noticed Derek putting his usual tip on the counter. Before he could gather his thoughts, Derek was already putting his jacket back on. 

The werewolf looked forlorn and disappointed as he said in a low voice, “Happy Thanksgiving, Stiles.”

As if that wasn't bad enough, Derek then leaned over the counter, albeit hesitantly, placed a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and pressed a warm kiss against Stiles’ cheek. The beard brushed against his skin, an echo of what happened only moments before.

Derek pulled back and studied Stiles once more, expression yet again unreadable. When he eventually turned and left, Stiles stood there thinking:

What the hell just happened?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment with any questions, suggestions, criticisms y'all have :) I'm interested to know how you find my writing technique/style, as it's always something to improve.
> 
> Thanks for reading xxx

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/feedback/suggestions/criticisms/love always welcome :) Do let me know if you want this continued xxx


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